


Everything Is Permitted

by cordysup



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Denial, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordysup/pseuds/cordysup
Summary: Self-aggrandizing philosophical mumbo-jumbo. It may be romantic, but mostly it's sarcastic. Rhyme will be castrated from future appearances.





	1. Chapter 1

“Stop getting crumbs on my bed.” 

Jane took another bite of the cereal cake that was quickly returning to its original form all over Daria’s bed. “I think it looks better this way,” she said between chews. 

Daria rolled her eyes and focused instead on the paper she was writing on her new laptop. “Do you think Dostoyevsky knew his work would be bastardized in the 21st century by capitalist Protestants?”

Jane chewed thoughtfully. “Considering his name sounds like a musical number, I’d have to argue no. He was far too cultured in theater to even consider them.”

“How right you are.” Daria took a quick note of Jane’s musings and then closed the lid to her laptop. “Let’s go out for pizza. I’m feeling suddenly moved to action by a distant, poignant gospel rendition of Poliushko Polie.”

“Isn’t that the antithesis of your paper?”

“You’re so well-informed.”

Jane held the door open for her as the girls made their way out of the small dorm room and out into the world. Daria had the last remnants of an upbeat Red tune floating through her head, and she quietly hummed as they walked down Curtis Street in search of an overpriced school dining pizza experience. 

“So how are you liking Raft?” Jane asked.

Daria finished humming the tail end of a verse before she answered. “Most of the people in my classes seem to want to be in them, which is a refreshing change from Lawndale at least.”

Jane smirked. “And have you made any new friends, Daria?” she goaded. Jane knew Daria’s mother must have bothered her over the same thing the last time she visited. 

Daria wasn’t as amused. “Friends? I would contextualize my situation as ‘self-imposed isolation from communal socialization.’ Any more than that would be just too giddy.”

“Oh, please restrain yourself from jumping.”

Daria sighed. “I wish it wasn’t such a big deal to her that I find camaraderie with my peers. I subsist just fine alone in my dorm room.”

Jane made a noise of disapproval.

“And with you,” Daria added noncommittally. 

“A flatterer.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jane held the door again as they entered the student union. Daria hadn’t been out much since she started attending Raft five months ago, but she was almost certain there was a pizza eatery somewhere in this building. 

As they searched the first floor for pizza, Daria noticed the flat affect on Jane’s face. “How have the fine arts treated you?” she asked, hoping to rouse her friend from her look of discontent. 

Jane looked startled for a moment, like Daria’s comment had disturbed a deep thought. “Oh,” she said finally, “it’s been alright. Not as weird starting in the spring as I thought it would be.”

“Have you joined any clubs?” Daria asked.

Jane looked surprised again, but this time more by the question than anything else. “I have, actually,” she said, a small smile coming to her face. “Why are you so interested in that all of a sudden?”

Daria made to look like she was very concerned about the pizza they couldn’t find. “Just a normal inquiry considering our state of accomodations. Clubs are pretty common in college.”

“They are,” Jane mused. The little grin she had went away. “Have you joined any clubs, Daria?”

Daria grimaced. “No.”

“Hum.”

Their conversation lulled once more and Daria finally spotted a temporary solution for her current situation. “Pizza,” she declared, and Jane followed her up the stairs.

With pizza and drinks purchased and a table acquired, Daria allowed the lull in their conversation to acquiesce into purposeful silence. She ate slowly, thinking over Jane’s reaction to her offhand comment. 

She had just taken another bite when Jane exclaimed, “Oh hi!” at Daria’s left shoulder. She turned her head toward the direction and failed to recognize the people Jane was addressing. 

“Hey Jane!” one said. With growing horror, Daria realized her table for two was quickly turning into a table for five. “What are you doing so far away from BFAC?”

“I could ask you guys the same question.” 

“We’re here for the concert tonight,” one said. He had a lilt to his speech as if he was foreign or had a speech impediment. Daria was approaching a mood that persuaded her of the latter.

“What? What concert?” Jane asked, very interested. Her pizza sat forgotten; Daria lamented its fate as she finished her last bite.

“Don’t you know? Sick Leeches is playing at a benefit thing in the quad here at Raft. It’s supposed to be for some charity that the drummer is involved with.” Definitely a speech impediment. 

“What time?” Jane asked.

“Oh in about an hour, I guess.”

Jane seemed thrilled, a genuine grin lighting up her face under the flattering fluorescent lighting. Daria realized she was being very bitter. She lacked the agency to care.

Jane took one look at Daria and her smile fell as quickly as the collective IQ at a Sick Leeches concert. “You wouldn’t be willing to come to the concert with me, would you?” 

Daria considered the situation for a moment. Jane was upset with her for some reason. She obviously had three friends that were interested in the same band she was. Daria had not finished her paper on Dostoyevsky yet. 

“I’m sure the sound of what is supposed to be music will reach my dorm room,” she decided. Jane looked disappointed, but unsurprised. 

“Okay, Daria. I’ll see you later then.” And with that, Jane and her friends left the table. 

Daria was almost shell-shocked. “I guess Dostoyevsky knew what was up. _Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering._”


	2. Chapter 2

“_Fathers and teachers, I ponder, ‘What is Hell?’_” Professor Ekker rhetorically asked. “_I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love._

“Father Zossima goes on, _Once in infinite existence, immeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his coming to earth the power of saying, ‘I am and I love.’ Once, only once, there was given him a moment of active lifting love, and for that was earthly life given him, and with it times and seasons. And that happy creature rejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned it and remained callous._

"So what is Zossima talking about?” Ekker asked, placing his stapled packet on his desk, the well worn corner of the papers laying flat as stone.

There was a hush over the room, no one quite confident enough to broach the discussion of the Russian Christian text.

Daria inwardly sighed, then raised her hand. 

“Yes, Daria?” Ekker said.

“Zossima is describing the act of life-giving birth being the only love this soul has known, given to him by God,” she started. “Throughout his life, this person has rejected all other love. In death only does he realize his mistake. He regrets his life and laments his lack of love after witnessing the other people who have ascended to Heaven and the love given freely by the righteous.”

Daria paused. “The text goes on to describe the unconditional love he may receive from his Lord, and how it can begin to make up for the love he denied himself while he was alive. The act of taking his own life because he was devoid of love can be forgiven in Christ.” She paused again. “Zossima is denying the law of his Church and expressing compassion for the suicidal.”

Ekker nodded, “Very good, Daria.” He then tapped the packet on his desk. “_Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell… They live upon their vindictive pride like a starving man in the desert sucking blood out of his own body._” Ekker relayed this passage as an intuitive question.

Daria answered, “Those who deny the unconditional love of Christ are doomed to their own folly. They deny love in death as they did in life. Only Hell awaits them, and they accept it. They’re even happy for it.”

“_What is Hell?_” Ekker asked again. He nodded, then said, “_I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love._

“So as with most of Dostoyevsky’s works, Christ is a central theme here. But we can take even more out of this text than just his love for Christ and his belief in Christ’s unconditional love. Daria had the right idea about his intention with this passage. Does anyone else have anything to add?”

There was another hush in the room. Ekker seemed disappointed, and Daria was reminded of DeMartino, except Ekker was much more subtle.

“Unrelated, but I do want to remind you all that participation is a part of your grade.”

The rest of the hour was filled with half-assed commentary and shallow insight, and Daria wished that the hush would come back, as it lent itself to more depth than the shit she was hearing now.

“So like, God will forgive people who kill themselves, is what he’s saying,” someone commented. Daria’s eye twitched, and she forced herself to focus on reading again for fear of hearing another line.

When class was over, she hurriedly made an exit before Ekker could ask her for more of her thoughts. She appreciated that he recognized her aptitude, but being held after class when she only had ten minutes before her next one was really eating into her understanding of world geography.

The day passed in a blur after that, and when she finally returned to her small dorm room, Daria was suddenly accosted with the desire to read more Dostoyevsky. It surprised her a little, considering his political and religious affiliations, but her short conversation with Ekker this morning roused her curiosity. 

She found herself back at the passage from class. 

_Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is Hell?" I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love._

Daria stopped to think of just this line, separate from the rest of the text. She supposed that the line made interesting commentary on the state of humanity. Hell on Earth was easily found in the loneliness of the human condition. Daria tried not to dwell on it.

She stumbled across a few more distinct quotes which had been outlined by Ekker as "important." 

_"I love mankind,” he said, "but I find to my amazement that the more I love mankind as a whole, the less I love man in particular."_

Daria suddenly felt as though she would have gotten along with Dostoyevsky.

One quote haunted her though. 

_Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others._

Daria wondered why this line echoed through her mind as she laid down to sleep; and she wondered of Jane’s face after she had made that comment; and on the gentle slope of Jane’s nose.


	3. Chapter 3

A week came and went and she had not heard from Jane. Daria had become increasingly regretful that she had not gone to the concert with her. She knew it came from a place of deep-seated insecurity in her friendship and a disdain for others becoming well-acquainted with her best friend. The psycho-analyst in her hated how obvious she was being, and the misery chick in her was ashamed that her feelings didn’t have any more depth than “insecure and jealous.”

The longer she went without speaking to Jane, the more extreme her thoughts of apology went. At two weeks, Daria was willing to even admit out loud that she was being petty. She didn’t know if she was willing to admit it out loud with Jane in the room though.

After three weeks, she was. 

Daria passed her cell phone from her left hand to her right hand, then from her right hand to her left, then left to right, right to left, and on and on until she unceremoniously dropped it.

She stared at the device on the floor, leaden as a brick for all the effort it would be to pick it back up. Daria argued with herself again. Should she call? Shouldn’t Jane be the one to reach out, since she’s the one who’s upset with Daria over something so trivial? _Stop thinking that way, Daria. If it were trivial, then you’d be talking right now instead of playing Cold Phone War._

With a heavy sigh, Daria hefted the phone from the floor and dialed Jane’s number. The call went through and rang twice before there was an answer.

“Hello?” Jane’s voice sounded through the phone. It was just one word, but the relief at hearing her friend’s voice washed throughout her entire body.

“Hi Jane,” Daria said. They were both quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Jane sighed. “I forgive you,” she said solemnly. They were quiet again. “I haven’t been avoiding you,” she said. “I’ve just been really busy. The fine arts are demanding.”

Daria allowed herself a small smile. “Even so, I don’t like not talking to you. Call me sentimental, but you’re the only person I actually like to listen to.” 

Jane laughed, and Daria smiled without even thinking about it now. “I’ll try not to lord that one over you too much.”

They fell back into an easy pattern after that, their conversation picking up as if they hadn’t not talked for three weeks. Jane was working on her semester-long project for one of her major classes, and told Daria how stumped she was for a decent muse. 

“I have the rest of the semester to come up with a decent traditional piece for my portfolio. It can’t be on paper, and it has to be larger than a toddler. Any ideas?”

Daria tapped her boot thoughtfully, her leg resting comfortably on top of the other. “Did they give you direction other than the general medium?”

Jane growled. “_No_.” Daria heard her kicking something. “I guess they see it as forcing us to be ‘creative,’ but I just see it as needlessly complicated. I don’t know what my focus should be; I don’t know what kind of art I should even make; and I don’t know how it’ll fit inside a binder.”

Daria grinned. “Maybe they expect you to invent the first shrinking sculpture.”

“A sculpture!” Daria heard Jane scramble on the other line for a moment, then heard the hasty scribbling of pen and paper. “Somehow, incorporate shrinking. Thanks, Daria!”

“You could always do a case study on human male anatomy.” 

Jane made a retching sound almost too believable for it not to be real. “Thanks, Michaelangelo, but I’d rather not carve the next marble statue to be given a leaf on school property.”

“Aggravating how they always do that, yeah?”

“I guess that’s a word for it. ‘Welcomed’ is another.”

Daria considered Jane’s statement a bit longer than she had her other jokes. “Jane?” she said.

“Hm?” Jane answered. Daria could hear pen again through the line. 

Daria considered what she wanted to say, and instead changed the subject. “Have you met anyone at BFAC?”

Jane clicked her tongue. “Well you met the guys I went to see Sick Leeches with. I guess they’re like friends. And there’s Cara, from Western History. My roommate, not so much. She seems to live in Narnia considering I only ever see her in her wardrobe when she’s here.”

“That’s not quite what I meant.” The line was quiet for a few seconds. “I meant, have you met anyone you’re interested in? You know, like a guy?”

Daria was glad she couldn’t see Jane’s face. The smug shock at Daria’s interest in her life would have been degrading. 

“No, I’m afraid I’m still single, like a sardine from Claflin Hall fish market.”

“There’s a fish market in your dorm?” Daria deadpanned.

“No, silly, it was a bad joke.” 

They talked then about small things for an hour or so: the overpriced campus food, the Boston area traffic, the desire to not live in school dorms. Daria finished her math homework and Jane supposedly made art. 

“I wish it wasn’t mandatory for freshmen to live on campus. I really want to paint my walls.”

“I’m not even sure you can do that in an apartment, Jane.”

“Well, I know I can’t in this damn dorm. Maybe I’ll buy a house.”

“Yes, with all that money you have from paying for college.”

Jane groaned. “Daria, won’t you buy me a house? For old times’ sake?” 

The question was an innocent enough joke, but Daria suddenly found herself thinking much longer on the idea of living in a house with Jane than she had anticipated. 

“Daria?” Jane asked after Daria had failed to answer within a reasonable amount of time.

“Oh, sorry, yeah,” she said with an uncharacteristic nervousness.

“Yeah…” Jane said, drawing out the end of the word with reasonable suspicion. “What’s up?”

Daria cleared her throat. “Oh, nothing. It’s nothing.”

Jane made a sound like she certainly didn’t believe her, but let it go anyway because she was a good friend like that. 

They said their goodnights shortly after and then Daria was alone with her thoughts. It was a Thursday. Maybe she should have asked Jane if she’d have liked to do something tomorrow night. They could go see a movie or hang out in Daria’s dorm. She was lucky enough to have a tiny single room. She decided to ask tomorrow.

After she brushed her hair and her teeth, Daria laid down to be greeted not by the sweet embrace of dreamless sleep, but instead to the unstoppable, relentless tide of repressed emotions. 

Daria liked to think she wasn’t stupid. In fact, that was about the only thing she considered she had going for herself — the fact that she wasn’t stupid. 

However, lately she felt confused. And then she felt frustrated about feeling confused. And then she felt frustrated about feeling frustrated about feeling confused. And confused about what? She didn't even know!

She blamed most of it on being apart from Jane. They hadn’t been separated like this since Jane had gone to that art commune during a summer in high school. Daria had grown accustomed to a way of life that involved seeing Jane every morning, every lunch, and every evening for the last four years of her life. Now they were adults with different responsibilities, and their time together had been cut extremely short. They were lucky if they could spend part of the weekend together most weeks now.

Still, she wasn’t sure why every time she did see Jane, she felt contented and anxious all at once. She hadn't felt this way before they left for college. She would argue actually that, back then, being around Jane just felt natural. Jane was like home in that way.

She was struck with a sudden realization then. She felt so lonely, so jealous, and so anxious around Jane because she was homesick! Her mother would love to hear that one, she was sure.

Satisfied with this realization, Daria surmised that she would like to decorate her room more — to make it feel like home. Then she fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Jane was visibly much more excited at the prospect of decorating Daria’s room than Daria herself. When she broke the news, Jane immediately started filling a duffel bag with random shit from around her own room.

“Jane, what the hell?” Daria said, standing up quickly from the loveseat and hitting her head. Jane wasn't lucky or wealthy enough to afford student housing with a separate living quarters, so the beds were bunked to fit a couch and her old TV. Unfortunately, they had to be positioned in such a way that the end of the top bunk hung right over the couch.

Jane quirked a brow. “Decorating needs a woman’s touch,” she said resolutely. "And watch your head."

Daria ignored her headache and Jane's unhelpful comment. "I’m not a woman?” 

Jane gave her a look. 

“Point taken.”

“Besides," Jane continued, "I’m sure this skull will go well with your collection." She held a familiar cow skull up before placing it on top of what looked like sheet metal.

"And the clothes?" Daria asked.

"So I can stay the night, duh."

Daria smiled, warmth filling her chest. Jane's casual self-invite reminded her of their closeness, and she was secretly very thankful to have a friend like her.

"There's not a lot of room though," Jane said. "Would you mind if we shared the bed?"

Daria's room was sized for a single, but fitted with a full. One of the perks of the honors single-living, she supposed. There was also a sink. No bathroom though.

"That's fine," she said. "We've shared beds before."

"Yeah, but one of us usually slept on the floor."

"We're adults now. That means we don't have to sleep on the floor anymore, right?"

Jane pretended to think for a moment. "I think being an adult means you have to sleep in a bathtub at some point. Not sure what the rules are on floor-sleeping."

"Are you trying to argue against your own request?" 

She threw up her hands. "You got me. You smell."

Daria made a move to sniff her armpit. "Damn."

Jane finished packing her duffel with a few painting supplies and then threw it over her shoulder. “Let’s get going, amiga. We’ve got a productive day ahead of us.”

“If by productive, you mean tiring and inconsequential, then giddy-up, partner.” Daria smacked her thigh to emulate the crack of a whip. 

Jane neighed, and took off down the hallway. If she were prone to outbursts, Daria might have laughed. As it was, the small smile she had was a flagrant display of emotion. “Woah, Secretariat!” she hollered down the hallway as she followed slowly after.

They arrived at Daria’s dorm about twenty minutes later. Their campuses were close and she was thankful for it. She didn’t like thinking about how she would deal if Jane had gone to university on the opposite coast. She assumed she would cease to function, but that may have been an exaggeration.

“Not a lot of room to move around in here,” Jane said as she set the duffel on Daria’s bed. She was right. The bed took up the entire east wall and most of the north, where the entrance was. She had room between the door and her bed for a small table. The door opened toward the west wall, and behind the entrance door was the door to her small closet. The south wall featured the end of her bed, the sink and mirror, the window, and her desk. The open space between the desk and the door went on for only a few feet — barely enough space to sit in, let alone fit a horizontal body.

To make up for the small space, whoever had designed the room built open shelves into the east wall next to her bed. One had to crawl over the bed to reach them, but they did provide extra storage space in addition to the space under the bed.

Jane squared her fingers like she was taking a photo and turned toward the west wall. “This will be our mural space,” she said and clicked her tongue as she emulated a camera shutter with her hands. “I have this metal from my last project. We can lay it in strips and I’ll paint something Daria-esque on it. Then we’ll hang it on the wall.” She dumped her bag onto the bed to get to the metal strips at the bottom.

Daria leaned against the doorframe. “You think it’s a good idea to paint in here?” she asked, gesturing to the room. 

“Don’t worry; I brought tarps.” Jane reached into her duffel again and pulled out a big, black trash bag. 

“When have I known you to be unprepared?” Daria said as she let the door to the room close and walked over to the window behind her desk. She struggled for a moment at the weird angle to wrench it open, and Jane popped her head over to see what was up.

“Aw, you don’t want us to get high from paint fumes? Careful or I’ll think you care about me.” Jane grinned and reached over to push the tab of the window on her side. Daria briefly felt Jane’s breath against her neck, her torso against her own, and goosebumps rushed to meet the red already gracing her cheeks. She steadfastly ignored that strange reaction, and with both of them putting their strength into the task, they were able to push the window up several inches. Jane either didn’t notice Daria’s reaction or chose not to, and she went back to the duffel bag. 

“Who says I did it for you? I live here, you know.” Daria chose to stare at the metal rather than Jane.

“Ouch, and here I thought you invited me over because you liked my brain cells.”

“You invited yourself over.”

“Touche.”

Jane spread the trash bag on the floor and began preparing her project. “So I was thinking lots of red,” she said as she spread paint on the flat wood block she used for big projects like this. 

Daria took a seat at her desk. “Sounds to me like you’re decorating your own room.” 

Jane grinned and looked up to meet Daria’s eyes. 

They say that sudden, life-changing realizations come to you at sudden, unexpected moments. Daria looked into Jane’s blue, blue eyes, and just like in a romance novel, she sat transfixed with the dawning realization that she was the stupidest, most unlucky, most oblivious person on the planet.

“I need to — use the bathroom.” Daria jolted up from her seat and quickly tried to move to the door. However, the metal, paint, and Jane all blocked her path.

“Woah there, Tiger. Let me move some of this.” Jane started to gather up the paint supplies so that Daria could move past her, but Daria was becoming increasingly agitated and desperately wanted to be out of the claustrophobic space. 

“Just — let me step over —” Daria made to step over Jane’s legs as she was on her knees bent forward, but she didn’t finish her statement before Jane went to move her paint block. Daria lurched forward, Jane lurched forward to grab her, and suddenly they were both lurching forward right into the paint.

“Oh,” Daria said.

“Oh,” Jane said.

They lay on the floor next to each other, paint on their faces and hands and all over the floor. Daria had no choice but to stare directly into Jane’s blue, blue eyes, and it took her several seconds to remember why they were in this situation in the first place. 

“Oh god,” Jane said, breaking their stare and pushing herself off the floor. “There’s paint everywhere.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Daria said, still reeling from all the thoughts in her head.

“Well, I better get a job now, cause it’s gonna cost a fortune to get the carpet replaced.” Jane started scooping dollops of red goop from the carpet back onto the wood block.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” Daria found her legs somehow and made like a horse to a horse festival. Did horses even have festivals? What was this simile?

She reached the bathroom sink and immediately threw water on her face, glasses and all. Red paint colored the corner of her frames, but thankfully not the glass. It was also on her nose, chin, and right cheek, where she had hit the floor — where she had stared into Jane’s eyes for _way_ too long. 

She smacked herself. _Get it together, Morgendorffer_, she thought. _You may be experiencing a personal crisis, but there is_ no _way you are becoming a sap._ With that thought, she decided to attempt to remove the paint from her face.

Several minutes passed before she gave up. _Well, this kinda sucks_, she thought. _A lot of this kinda sucks. _

Daria sighed and went to sit on the bench next to the showers. _So you weren’t homesick_, she thought wryly.

Daria pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing heavily again as the onset of a headache creeped up her neck. _Okay, so, what now?_ The question fell heavy into her stomach, giving her the sensation between needing to hurl, and needing to die.

_Okay, we’ll think about that one later._ She stood up with the intent of going back to her room, but then remembered that Jane was in there. _I literally can’t go back in there_, she thought.

She wrung her hands, went back to the sink, and started scrubbing at her face again. Several minutes passed as flakes of red paint slowly slipped down the drain. 

Daria was so focused on scrubbing her cheek that she hadn’t noticed the person until she was standing right next to her. 

“You’re mad,” Jane said.

Daria tried not to look outwardly panicked, but she feared the small “eep” may have given her away. Jane quirked a brow, but Daria ploughed through to prevent any comment on it. “I’m not mad, just disappointed,” she said, purposefully monotonous as possible. Maybe she had put in too much effort on that line.

“Sorry, Mom. I know how proud you were of your off-white plush.” Jane began scrubbing her own face at the sink next to Daria’s. 

The sound of running water and furious scrubbing filled several minutes between them. Daria finally became sick of trying to remove the paint from her chin and turned off the water. Jane looked her way, then quickly shut hers off as well, and they both moved to grab paper towels from the dispenser. 

They stood close to one another. Daria wiped her face off quickly, so as to not draw out the situation, but Jane stopped her. 

“Should we tell the RA now, or later, when you go to move out?” she asked.

Daria silently thanked her for changing her mind’s focus. This was at least an issue she could actively work on. “I’ll talk to her on Monday. No point ruining the weekend.” What? It’s not like she was _that_ into self-flagellation.

She reconsidered that thought at Jane’s next statement. “Okay, do you still want me to stay over?”

Daria realized then that Jane really _did_ think she was mad at her over this. Sure, it was probably going to cost some money to appease the college, but her mother was a lawyer and her father was a businessman. Her family was upper-middle-class-enough that the expense really wouldn’t be that big of an issue. Jane, of course, didn’t see it that way. Daria considered a way to convey this without hurting her, or making light of their economic differences.

“My mom will probably pay for the carpet,” she said instead. She attempted a smile. “Yes, I still want you to stay over.”

Jane no longer looked like she had slaughtered an animal instead of spilled some paint. “How long do you think that conversation will be?”

“Long enough that she’ll probably count it toward our monthly quality time. Two birds, one stone.”

They fell back into rhythm so easily that Daria almost forgot the whole reason she had been upset in the first place. Oops, now she remembered. 

“I can’t believe we finally get to see each other after so long and I go and do this.” Jane pulled the collar of her shirt nervously, and Daria felt the urge to stop Jane’s hands with her own. _No,_ she thought, _we aren’t doing this right now._

Daria started back toward the bedroom and Jane followed. “It’s really not a big deal,” Daria said. “I’m sure things like this happen fairly often in college dorms. Though the stains are probably much more difficult to explain.”

They entered the bedroom and Daria went to sit on the bed. Jane slid down the wall onto the floor and grabbed a set of paintbrushes. She set two pieces of metal down, one above the other, and tilted her head in that artist’s way that she did. “I’m going to paint them so that the image matches from one to the other, like someone cut a picture up in a really boring puzzle.” 

“Sounds exactly like the kind of decor I would like to have on my walls where I live.” 

“The _painting_ isn’t going to be boring, Daria. Just the pieces I paint it on.” Jane likely knew Daria was acting purposefully obtuse, but Daria knew she enjoyed these little conversations as much as she did. She wondered on that briefly, as she had been doing with most of her interactions with Jane lately. Did they really derive such enjoyment from simply speaking to one another? 

Daria watched as Jane began painting in swift, sure stroke across the metal bands. She moved from the bottom strip to the strip above it with a languid, arcing brush, not quite falling off the line of action. Daria assumed this was to make room for the topmost piece of metal, which would complete the set.

“You don’t usually paint abstract lines,” Daria pointed out. She could distinctly remember most of the paintings Jane had done throughout high school, and most of them featured some sort of actual subject focus, like people and animals.

“No, but I thought you’d prefer something like this,” Jane said easily. “I figured you’d like something a bit more industrial than what I usually do. I _am_ decorating for Daria Morgendorffer, you know, not Jane Lane.”

Daria was shocked by Jane’s sincerity for a moment. “You put that much thought into it?” she asked. Then said, “You grabbed everything so quickly when I told you I wanted to decorate.”

Jane smiled and shook her head. “What, you think I don’t know my best friend like the back of my hand by now? For shame, Daria Morgendorffer, for shame.”

The heat quickly took her neck this time, then her cheeks. She was afraid she’d get an anxiety rash, like she had in high school when she thought she had a crush on Trent. Trent! Boys. She liked boys, remember? She had dated a boy, even. Tom. She had dated Tom and had more or less enjoyed that time. They hadn’t done anything sexual, of course, but she had enjoyed kissing him, right? Now that she thought about it, did she actually? All this thinking was surely going to give her a rash.

“I’m just surprised you would know what art I prefer when I don’t even know what art I prefer,” she said at last. 

“I have an instinct for it, I guess. Call it artist's intuition.” Jane grabbed the other piece of metal once she finished with the bottom piece. There wasn’t enough space to paint all three at the same time. 

Daria tried to not read into what Jane had said, but her mind was going a million miles a minute. Would Jane read into how confused she was right now? Would she recognize something was up with the way she was acting? Would she notice the blushes, or if she did, would she attribute them to the correct justification? Daria could feel the onset of panicked breathing, and forced herself to calm down by watching Jane paint.

She never noticed before how easy it was to just exist with Jane in the same space as her. They had done this so often in high school that she must have taken it for granted. Spending an entire semester away from her had been brutal. Each day she had woken up, gone to class, and came back to an empty, silent dorm room only to do it all over again the next day. The weekends had been worse, though. With no one to hang out with, Daria had spent most of her time alone, reading. She and Jane had spoken on the phone of course, but it really wasn’t quite the same as breathing the same air, hearing the same brush strokes, seeing the same face.

Daria watched Jane’s face as she painted. Her red lipstick had been washed off during their time in the sink. Red paint colored her left cheek and brow. It almost looked cool, the way she wore it. 

Jane glanced up and caught Daria staring. Daria hoped the red of the paint masked the red of her cheeks.

“Like something you see?” Jane asked, jokingly. 

Daria wasn’t sure how to answer, so she decided to deflect. “You’re almost finished.”

Jane looked down at the painting again and shook her head. “I think it’s missing something,” she said, tapping the end of the paintbrush against her chin. “I think it needs more color.”

Jane pushed herself to her knees and looked at the supplies she had haphazardly dumped on the bed. “Ah, yes, how could I forget.” She grabbed a tube of black paint and sat back down.

Daria watched again as Jane finished painting all three pieces with accenting strokes of black paint.

“There,” she declared, brushing her hands to no effect. “Done.” She set aside her supplies and stood up. And stood there. 

Daria sent a silent question to her. 

Jane stared back. “How are we going to get them on the wall?”

Recognition flooded into her brain as she considered their dilemma as well. They couldn’t use nails, or Helen would end up having to pay even more to have the holes filled in. They couldn’t use command strips because the metal didn’t have anywhere they could hook on to. Well, that could be fixed. It would just be very difficult. 

“Oh! I know.” Jane shuffled through the clothes she had dumped on Daria’s bed and pulled out a pair of red boy shorts. She considered them for a moment with a look of fond regret, then began tearing them into strips.

“Jane?” Daria asked. 

Jane failed to explain as she continued to work. She wrapped several strips around the ends of each piece of metal, then reached into the side pocket of her duffel bag to retrieve industrial-strength glue. 

“You just carry that around with you?”

“Never know when you might need it,” Jane answered. Then she fixed each strip to the metal, and then each strip onto itself to create a makeshift fabric hook. “Now all we need are a million 3M hooks and we’re set,” she said, proud of her handiwork. Daria had to admit, she never would have thought to create fabric hooks out of underwear. She tried not to think about having Jane’s underwear on display in her dorm room, disguised as hooks or not.

“Resourceful,” she decided to say. 

“I do try. Please, hold the applause.” Jane began packing away her art supplies into the duffel bag. 

“I appreciate you sacrificing your underwear for art,” Daria began, “but didn’t you need those?” 

Jane finished packing her duffel and moved to push it under the bed. “Eh, I figured I could go commando after I shower.” 

This time, she knew for sure that Jane noticed her blush.

“Oh, sorry to have offended the dear sensibilities of my fair lady,” Jane commented through a laugh. “I expected college life would have introduced you to more adult content than Lawndale High.”

Daria swallowed through her embarrassment. It wasn’t that going commando was quite as risque as Jane assumed Daria thought it was. It was just that… 

Daria and Jane were going to sleep in the same bed.

Jane would not be wearing underwear. 

Daria was very confused about her feelings for Jane.

Jane would not be wearing underwear.

Daria felt her headache coming back.

She rubbed at her temples and shut her eyes. “Um,” she said, “would you like to borrow some shorts?”

“I have some pajama pants I was going to wear,” Jane said. “I didn’t even know you owned shorts.”

“I own shorts.” 

“So I’ve heard.”

Daria opened her eyes to see Jane staring at her.

“You okay, amiga?”

Daria sighed, then stood up and went to her closet to grab some clothes. “I’m fine,” she said, voice muffled. “Let’s get the shower out of the way. I think I’d like to go to sleep soon.”

“Daria Morgendorffer, always a rager when I spend my Friday nights with you.”

Daria suddenly felt very guilty. “I’m sorry, Jane.” She turned around, clothes in hand. 

Jane looked like she regretted her joke. “Hey, I’d just be doing the same thing if I were back at my place. At least with you, I know it’s special.” Jane smiled, seeming proud at her fine recovery.

Daria was about to explode with how many innuendos she’d heard tonight.

“Right, well, I’m going to shower.”

“I’ll go after you. I forgot my soap.”

Daria nodded, the decision of letting Jane use her soap a nonissue. However, as she walked to the bathroom, it occurred to her that Jane would end up smelling like her. Could this night get any worse?

Daria tried not to think as she showered, but of course, her brain decided to do other things. She was barely into the lather part of shampooing when her thoughts drifted to Jane. She really wasn’t sure why all of this was coming out now. If she had latent, lesbian feelings for Jane, shouldn’t she have realized them back in high school. You know, _before_ she kissed Jane’s boyfriend behind her back and started dating him?

Thinking was giving her anxiety, but she knew if she didn’t sort through at least _some_ of this before she went back into the bedroom, something would come out and she didn’t want it to be her.

Jane and Daria. Daria and Jane. They had been friends since the first day they met. Daria couldn’t imagine what high school would have been like if she hadn’t met Jane. Every day was hell enough already without someone to share it with. 

Daria considered that for a moment. It had been much the same with Tom. She enjoyed their time together because she liked having someone to share her feelings, thoughts, and problems with. But when she thought about it, Jane already did those things, and she demonstrated countless times that she did them better. Maybe that’s just what good friendships were like. Maybe these feelings weren’t some latent, hormonal reckoning, but the feelings that come with long-term relationships, no matter their nature. Besides, Daria had already decided that she would never do anything to jeopardize her friendship with Jane ever again. She imagined that harboring lesbionic feelings for her would likely do just that. 

And Daria wasn’t a lesbian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter got stupid long. 
> 
> If you're reading this as I post it and you've already read chapters 1-3, I went back and revised some things. I had forgotten that Jane started college in the spring semester. I didn't change much, but I felt it was necessary.


End file.
